Back To The Start
by edken
Summary: John is finally starting to piece his life back together when- on the night before his wedding- everything changes. Sherlock's in the hospital (sort of), John saved his life (sort of), and Sherlock is back for good (sort of). Gets dark at various times Johnlock feels (but no gay porny type of material, don't worry!) Reviews are always lovely. This is my first fic so be nice! c:
1. Chapter 1- A Night At The Bar

**Chapter 1**

At the bar, John Watson stared into a shallow glass of scotch. The golden liquid caught the dim light, making it look the same way it felt as John sipped it. Warm, comforting. He downed the last of it with a gulp, relishing the taste. He'd treated himself to the most expensive scotch they offered. It was the night before his wedding, after all.

He wasn't at the bar for the sake of getting drunk, more for the sake of passing time. Mary seemed to think that spending the night together before the wedding was bad luck (some sort of family tradition), so their flat was empty. Far too quiet for a man as anxious as John was.

He wasn't nervous about marrying Mary. She was perfect, that was for sure. John had known since the moment he met her that she was the type of woman a man could only hope to find, let alone marry. So no, he wasn't nervous about that. At first he thought it must be normal for the groom to feel this way. Yes, of course, perfectly normal… but still, the growing sensation that he was missing something didn't seem to fade throughout the evening. He felt ominously empty.

An hour and a few glasses of scotch after he'd arrived, the bar remained for the most part quiet. It was the middle of the week, and 11 was an odd hour to be arriving for a drink. John just sat comfortably sipping away and watching the news on the telly in the corner, smiling sheepishly to himself whenever he thought about what the next day would bring.

He instantly noticed when a man sat down next to him, but he didn't look over. There really was no need to acknowledge him, a complete stranger.

"Hello, John." said a voice that could only come from the man who'd just sat down. John nearly choked as he turned to see who could possibly-

"Sorry," None other than Mycroft holmes was looking back at a very much alarmed John. He smirked, "didn't mean to startle you."

"What could you possibly be doing here?" John gasped as he wiped a bit of spilled drink off his chin. It was odd to see him in public, in a place of such little importance. As opposed to buckingham palace, or more frequently some mysterious abandoned building somewhere. His 700 dollar suit looked out of place in such a dirty, average bar. It made John uneasy.

"I understand this is an inopportune time, the eve before your wedding." Mycroft disregarded John's question. He didn't even bother with wondering how Mycroft knew about the wedding. It had been almost three years since they'd spoken- the last time actually when John had invited Mycroft to Sherlock's funeral. He felt a pang of bitterness as he remembered that Mycroft had been "too busy" to attend. But it was no surprise that he knew about the wedding, Mycroft always seemed to know everything.

"Yeah," John agreed with him, "yeah just a bit." He gave Mycroft the coldest stare he could muster before looking back into his refilled cup. John hadn't missed him, or had any desire to reconnect. And he didn't appreciate the memories his presence had now stirred up. Everything about Sherlock had finally been repressed, far into the depths of John's being. Tucked away for rainy days, or moments alone. But now they were escaping out into the open again, and he could feel them all like individual little pinpricks.

"Ah. Well, I shall be brief as possible then." Mycroft flashed his familiar half grin.

John said nothing.

"Do you remember the events of three years ago, concerning my brother?"

John's insides turned cold at the mention of Sherlock. Even though he hadn't said his name… well, John hadn't heard anyone speak about him in a long time. He tried not to even think about Sherlock himself. It was like being doused in ice water, from head to toe. And what a stupid question to ask… how could he ever forget?

"Of course I do."

"Well then, I do believe it's time I share some… information with you."

John pushed the palms of his hands up to his eyes and sat there for a moment. Of all nights for someone like Mycroft Holmes to come back into his life, it had to be this one. He should still be grinning to himself and hearing wedding bells and feeling the liquor warm his stomach, but no. Now his blood had turned cold, and all he could hear was static in his head. All he could see was Sherlock's face floating around behind his closed eyelids. That same feeling he felt for so long after he lost him… it was slowly creeping up his spine again. And suddenly, John realized what he had been missing earlier.

Sadness.

He'd grown so use to it being with him, weighing him down, that the sadness had become a part of him. The loneliness had always been there too, even in a crowded room. All of the memories and the longing for everything to go back to how it use to be- he'd grown so use to it just being there that he hadn't even noticed it had gone. But now, it returned with a vengeance. It gripped him so strongly that his hands began to shake.

He swallowed the rest of his drink in a few desperate gulps, hoping for a numbness only alcohol could bring him right now.

"I'm aware that you are under the impression that Sherlock is dead but- and I do apologize for what I'm about to say, because I don't know it may… affect you." John flinched when he said the name, but just as the last syllable resonated from his lips John noticed something. Something that surely must have been accidental. It's possible that it was the alcohol that made him see the sadness in Mycroft's eyes, because John was unquestionably starting to feel the effects of it now, but it seemed to linger for more than a moment. In fact, John got the feeling that this was who he really was now. Full of sadness. He wondered how his own eyes looked to Mycroft- if he could see the same emotion in them now, because for once John seriously doubted it.

He was so preoccupied with this that he almost missed what Mycroft said next. Almost.

"Sherlock is alive, John. He has been, all along."

It sounded almost like Mycroft was speaking a different language, or he rearranged his words somehow. They didn't belong in that wonder. The words "sherlock" and "alive" should never be connected- never again. Only in nightmares and memories, but never the real world. And certainly not spilling out of Mycroft's mouth.

John spit his drink out all over the both of them. Mycroft didn't even bat an eye as his lavish suit became painted with tiny splash marks. He just stared, almost looking as if he thought this reaction was too mild. Like he thought John should be crying or yelling or throwing chairs out of windows. He sat there waiting for something catastrophic to happen, but it didn't.

John started to laugh, and in a way this was almost worse.

The only thing that made him feel guilty about it was anguish John saw in Mycroft's eyes before he doubled over, but he couldn't stop. Wave after wave of laughter hit him. He knew the alcohol was partially responsible, but it was more the sheer absurdity of that statement. Sherlock is alive? Ha! That was the most ridiculous thing John had heard in ages.

And through all this Mycroft just sat bolt upright, assuming John was having a mental breakdown of sorts. He thought about telling the bartender to cut him off, but the drunken hysterical John was already grabbing the refilled cup, and was taking drinks between fits of laughter. It only went of for five minutes or so, but to mycroft it felt like ages, and his patience was wearing thin.

Finally John drew in a long shaky breath, and the laughter died down. When he looked up, the expression on Mycroft's face sobered him up considerably. He suddenly felt embarrassed, and guilty. But…

"You can't honestly expect me to believe you?" Was all he could think to say.

Mycroft sighed, "I thought you might say that." Out of his jacket pocket, he pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper, and slid it across the bar until it came to a rest right under John's nose.

John was thankful that he wasn't thinking clearly, because if he were he'd probably be unfolding the paper, and reading whatever mysterious note was scrawled across it; Instead he was just saying, "Leave me alone."

"He may need your help."

"He? Sherlock? No. I don't care." John lied. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him.

"I don't know what you're getting at Mycroft, but Sherlock doesn't need my help because he's dead." And John was particularly thankful that he was drunk now, because if he wasn't those words would have felt like daggers.

John pointed an unsteady drunken finger at the door with one hand, and waved goodbye with the other, refusing to speak another word to Mycroft. He was done with this utter nonsense. He was getting married tomorrow, moving on with his life. He did not need this rubbish from his past, and he certainly wasn't going to let it stand in the way of his happy ending with Mary.

Mycroft looked disappointed, and genuinely surprised, but he got up anyway without a word. The glimmer John had seen earlier had drained from him, and he just looked defeated as he walked away. It wasn't until he was halfway out the door that he looked back and opened his mouth to say something but then changed his mind, and closed it again. With a sigh, he just decided upon, "Congratulations to you and your bride, Dr. Watson." and then he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2- Morphine and Memories

**Hello readers, I hope you're liking the story thus far! Reviews and feedback are always welcomed and appreciated of course. Chapter one and two are sort of introductory, although there's a bit more going on in this one than the last. Chapter three and four are a work in progress so be patient, I promise there are some great twists and turns to come. Thanks to anyone reading this, I really appreciate it being my first fic and all. Enjoy! **

* * *

Chapter 2

Sherlock stared at the lifeless body on the floor for a long time. He bent down and recovered the syringe protruding from the man's neck, checking his pulse at the same time. As he expected there wasn't one to be found. This was it, the last one, and he was really dead. His chest no longer rose or fell. His heart and lungs were permanently still. He would never be getting up, and he was the last one. That thought kept echoing in Sherlock's mind, over and over and over. He knew he should be glad, but he was tired, and that's the only thing he felt.

All other emotions had gone numb over the past three years. Every once in awhile, when he was in hiding and didn't interact with anyone for days, thoughts crept into his mind. Small fragments of emotion that found their way to the surface, but they never remained there long. Sherlock always found a way to bury them again, beneath the 15 bodies he'd dedicated the last three years of his life collecting. Buried under secrecy, and murder, and his one and only objective- to eliminate moriarty's network. There were no room for emotions when you woke up every morning fighting for you life, taking on a new identity, a new town, a new country. Constantly moving, traveling. There was no rest, no time to stop and feel sorry for himself. He always had somewhere to go, someone to hunt, a risk to take. But now… well, what now? It had been a long time since he'd had to ask himself such a trivial question.

Sherlock hastily began to clean up the crime scene. He knew precisely what would be searched and how, so erasing his trail was never difficult. No matter where he traveled, all over the world police were the same moronic idiots. Always seeing, but never observing. There was no blood to take care of, Sherlock was too smart for that. Instead, he used an untraceable poison calle aconite. Natural, comes from plants. It almost brought him joy to think about how confused the detectives probably got about his victims.

He gave the scene one last look over, and it was just barely beginning to sink in. That it was genuinely all over. And that aggravating thought was back bouncing around Sherlock's head. What now? He didn't even remember what life was like before this. For a split second he reminisced about how good it use to feel coming back to 221B after tedious casework, and enjoying a nice cup of tea in his favorite armchair, and John sitting opposite him…

Sherlock shivered as the memory of John set off a series explosions in his mind. He missed everything about his old life, but he missed John the most. Everything seemed so distant now, it was hard to remind himself that any of it had ever been real. That he had ever fit into that life at all..

He began to walk toward the door, when suddenly he found himself needing to grab the back of a chair for support. It was as if all his strength had fled his body as once, and he felt his balance wavering considerably. The walls began to dance around him, spinning and shining. Black dots were obscuring his vision, floating around the room. What was happening? Had his hand slipped when injecting the poison? He looked down at his arms for any sign of the syringe pricking him, but his eyes couldn't focus on anything. His arms were just pale blobs, and he couldn't make out any details. Not a freckle, not a scar, not a hair. Nothing. He squinted at them, brought them closer to his eyes, but that only made him dizzy.

Sherlock snapped his head back up, panicked. He looked around the room frantically, but it was still shivering and swaying. Pain blossomed across his knees, and he realized that they had buckled beneath him.

Oh, sherlock thought to himself as he realized what this was. How could he be so stupid? He couldn't remember if it had been four or five days since he'd eaten or drank anything, but either way he was now paying the dire consequences. In order to kill the owner of this house, he'd had to break in several days before he knew they would be returning. Patiently crouched in the same position, allowing himself no more than 15 minutes of sleep at a time. He'd thought of everything and anything he might need, but overlooked the most basic of all necessities. Food. Water. Someone was bound to discover this mess soon, and then Sherlock would be caught. Locked away for the rest of his life.

Sherlock suddenly noticed a figure standing in the doorway- or at least he thought he did. Whoever it might be was unrecognizable, and Sherlock didn't have any guesses. His vision was fading fast, but he was certain he saw someone there. He tried to call out, but couldn't seem to form any words. From his knees, Sherlock felt himself start to lean sideways. He couldn't steady himself anymore, so he just let himself start to fall. He gave up. He could definitely hear the figure saying something now, and they were much closer, but Sherlock couldn't make it out. It all sounded as if he were drifting along underwater, drowning in the shimmering, fading walls. It all went black, and he didn't know whether or not his eyes were open any more.

But he could feel someone catch him under his arms and guide him safely to the floor before he hit, and his head was on something soft now… or being held… he couldn't tell. Sherlock started to feel himself slipping out of consciousness, and he could hear someone speaking again. It was only muffled sounds to him, no words, but it sounded so familiar. So dream like. It even felt right to drift off to it...

* * *

Sherlock woke up in a room that seemed familiar, but in a deja vu sort of way. Not as though he had actually been there- not recently, anyway. It was an office, and a large one. Thousands of books lined the walls, but it had been emptied of most furniture. Sherlock could see the imprint on the carpet of where a desk had sat previously, but the office seemed to have recently transformed into a miniature hospital. Sherlock soon realized that it was set up for him, given he was laying on a cot. There was a portable i.v. hooked up to his arm, a large monitor next to his head showing his heart rate (which was beating normally) and his temperature (slightly above average). There was also an extensive supply of morphine that no doubt, Sherlock deduced from his grogginess, was being pumped into his system. It had been shut off temporarily though.

After taking in the rest of the room, Sherlock's eyes finally settled on a figure slumped over in rather uncomfortable looking plastic chair next to his bed. He was asleep. It took Sherlock less than a second to figure out who it was, but it took much longer for him to actually believe it.

"John?" He tried to say, but it came out as a feeble cough. Sherlock felt shock for a brief moment, and almost a bit of happiness too before he pushed it all down. He wasn't going to allow emotions to take over him. He'd seen what it does to people. They babble on and on, and they cry, hug, laugh, and cry more. It's embarrassing to say the least. So, he just stared at John for a long time. His head was in one hand, and the other was lying limply across his lap. His mouth was slightly open, and Sherlock could hear him breathing. It sounded just like it always did. Sherlock closed his eyes and listened, enjoyed the familiar inhaling and exhaling- no. He immediately pushed the memory away just as quickly as it had come.

He opened his eyes and went back to studying John, every aspect of him. He had noticed the weight loss immediately- not intentional. Probably forgetting a meal at least once a day. He noticed the dark purple half moons under John's eyes, and the deeper wrinkles in his face. His hair had grayed more, and he hadn't shaved in since at least yesterday- maybe the day before.

But despite all this, he looked so youthful in his sleep. So young, and fragile. He was an image of pure innocence to Sherlock. He looked more peaceful and happy now than sherlock had ever really seen him, and that made him sad.

Suddenly, like a tidal wave, everything hit Sherlock at once. The memories, the emotions, everything he'd been trying to hard to keep at bay. As he sat there in his makeshift hospital bed, staring at John and hearing his deep slow breaths, watching his innocent sleepy movements, it suddenly broke a dam inside him. He couldn't stop the water rushing out, overflowing, destroying everything in it's path. A flood. A wild fire. A hurricane. There was no difference between them.

All the memories Sherlock had from baker street, when he first met John, how badly he wanted to impress him, when he finally had someone to accept him, it didn't matter how many years he'd gone without friends now that he had John, the late night cases, all of the dinners, the adventure, the thrill of the chase, even their fighting was something he'd missed so so much. Everything flooded his brain so quickly he couldn't possibly escape it. He tried to push it back down but there were too many- too many wonderful amazing memories and he wanted them back. And it hurt.

And even though John was asleep he turned away from him as hot tears pricked at his eyes. They forced themselves out, and a few cascaded down the length of his face, down his neck, settling into his collar bones. The beeping from the monitor grew faster and faster, matching Sherlock's increasing heart rate. His heart was burning. He would rather someone cut it out of his chest than experience this.

And suddenly, the light on the supply of morphine turned green and began to flow again into his bloodstream. Sherlock felt himself relaxing at once. The tears stopped flowing, his breathing slowed, his mind grew foggy once again. It was bliss.

Just before he drifted back off to sleep though, he looked back at John. Part of him felt terrified that he might not be there when he woke up next time. No, sherlock thought, I don't want to go. turn it off… He didn't want to go to sleep, not if it meant losing John, but just as his fingers reached the i.v. in his arm to rip it out, he was drifting. Too far gone. John's steady deep breaths were like a metronome, pulling sherlock to join him in sleep.


	3. Chapter 3- You've Got Questions

**Hello to anyone happening to read this. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the rest! It just gets better as I go on, and thanks again for reading! Chapter 4 should be up soon- get ready for johnlock feels!**

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Chapter 3

The next time Sherlock came around he felt even weaker. Presumably it was thanks to a mix of different pain killers and muscle relaxers- things to keep him asleep while nutrients got pumped into his system. This wasn't the first time during that past three years he had to be hospitalized discretely. His dear brother Mycroft always seemed to find a way to get Sherlock what he needed, much to his childish displeasure. Deep down Sherlock was thankful, but he'd always been so resentful toward Mycroft's helping hand.

His eyelids felt heavy, but he forced them open upon noticing a strange weight across his abdomen. He was suddenly aware of his right arm being pinned to his side. Sherlock tried to squint away the brightness, although the room wasn't harshly lit his pupils were sluggish on reacting. It was several moments before he could identify what was on top of him.

He was both surprised and little pleased to see that the thing was John, asleep once again. Although there were no windows or clocks in the room, it wasn't hard to tell that it had been at least a day since Sherlock was last awake. He could also tell by the stubble on John's face and the same clothing he was wearing previously that he had been there too. Sherlock caught himself grinning slightly as he realized John hadn't left his bedside.

He studied John's sleeping form. It was different this time. Before, in the chair, he had looked so at peace. Happy even. Now John looked absolutely despondent, even though he was a thousand miles away. There were subtle things- things only Sherlock would notice. Like his fingers intertwined with the blanket lying over Sherlock, as if he'd fallen asleep clinging to it desperately. The line between his brows like he was in the middle of a god awful dream. The way his arm was hooked with Sherlock's as though he'd almost wanted to hold his hand, but changed his mind at the very last second…

Sherlock shook his head slightly, trying to shake away the drug induced thoughts creeping into his mind. Him and John were not like that- the way he was thinking now. Sherlock was married to his work; John knew that, and Sherlock certainly did as well. So why did he find himself wrestling against the urge to push a few comforting fingertips through John's hair?

He shook his head again, getting irritated. Why was he fumbling over these useless emotions? He never bothered with such tedious things. Like attraction, or sentiment. Never in this way, and especially never with John. For god's sake. Anyway, he never let anyone forget- "I'm not gay." "I'm not his date." "Oh no we're not…" John was very much strait, from what Sherlock could deduce by his seemingly never-ending parade of girlfriends.

Although... he'd always felt there was something there. Sort of hidden away. Sometimes when they locked eyes for just that one extra second- a second too long. Or when Sherlock would catch John looking at him when he thought he couldn't see. The times when they stood so close to each other, without ever quite noticing. How John cared about him more than Sherlock cared about himself- although that wasn't entirely difficult to do. It always seemed peculiar to him, that John acted so similarly to the way Molly Hooper did around him. Although, considerably less obvious. But still, he constantly felt as if…

Again Sherlock was shaking his head. Trying to clear the thoughts for a third time. It was nonsense anyway. Sherlock was not- as Mycroft often liked to point out- very inexperienced in that area. Relationships… or, whatever.

And just as the unpleasant thought of Mycroft crossed Sherlock's mind, he seemed to materialize in the room. Of course, not literally, but Sherlock had been to consumed in thought to pay any mind to the door.

He nodded in the direction of John, still learning across sherlock's stomach, "I tried to get him to leave, but he refused. Latched onto you and wouldn't let go." Mycroft looked amused by the affection. Sherlock felt himself blushing slightly.

"What happened?" He attempted to change the subject.

"Ah. Well, you collapsed at that bloke's house… Moran, was it? Anyway, luckily John was there. He contacted me and we managed to get you out without attracting any unwanted attention." The two brothers stared at each other. Mycroft didn't know he had expected. A thank you maybe, would have been nice, but he soon realized he wouldn't be receiving one. With a sigh, he simply asked, "How long did you go without eating this time, Sherlock? It's taken us two days to get enough nutrients into your system for your levels to reach slightly below normal."

"Does it matter?" Sherlock snapped, looking away, "I had no choice."

Mycroft sighed wearily, "You are human, you know."

Sherlock briefly looked down at John before replying, "I know."

"So it's done? He was the last of them?"

"Yes." There was a long pause, again probably where Sherlock should have inserted a thank you.

But instead he just motioned to John with his free hand, and glared up at his brother, "I assume you're responsible for this?"

He offered one of his famous smirks, "I thought you would be overjoyed."

"You put him in danger. You should have waited."

"You're always so appreciative of my favors, dear brother." He said sarcastically. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

Mycroft turned to leave, noticing he was obviously getting nowhere with Sherlock, but before he did he pressed a button down on the morphine with a beep, and the green light came on again. Sherlock barely had time to get angry and begin what would be another failed attempt at pulling the IV out of his arm before his eyes forced themselves shut. The last thing he saw was Mycroft pause on his way out to mutter, "You're welcome." under his breath, and then he was asleep once again.

* * *

John woke up a few hours afterward, and it took him a moment to remember where he was. Mycroft's office, right, he reminded himself. He then noticed that he was still lying across Sherlock's body, in the same position he had taken when Mycroft told him to go home. It was childish, yes, but there was no way John was going to leave Sherlock's side. However he hadn't had any intentions to fall asleep there, he'd just been so exhausted, and Sherlock's fever burning through the blanket was oddly comforting. As he straightened himself back up to a sitting position he brought a hand to his cheek which had been resting on Sherlock previously and felt the warmness. His lips instinctively formed a slight smile.

And then, delicately, John tried to untangle his other arm from Sherlock's. He was surprised when the detective's arm tightened slightly in protest. John paused, glancing at the morphine, and when he realized there was no way to wake him John continued to pull away. He felt Sherlock's fingertips sleepily grab at the fringes of his sweater before it was freed. A part of him regretted it as he watched the sleeping detective grab a bit of blanket instead, as a replacement.

As impatient as John was for Sherlock to wake up, he was also apprehensive. How do you even begin to start a conversation with your best friend, whom you've spent the last three years of your life trying to forget? Everything John could come up with either sounded too angry, or not angry enough. He didn't exactly know how he felt.

He spent a lot of time studying Sherlock in order to distract himself from the other thoughts in his head. Unpleasant things like Mary, and what he was going to say when the time finally came to explain why he left her standing there at the altar less than 48 hours ago. Inside this room, reality was irrelevant. All that mattered was Sherlock- he would have to worry about Mary later. Although he felt sick to his stomach with guilt whenever it crossed his mind… it could wait. It would have to.

Whenever John looked over Sherlock, it was impossible not to notice the weight loss. John thought Sherlock was skinny before- far too skinny- but now he was positively frail. While he had laid across him last night he'd noticed how much his ribs protruded. Even with a wool blanket over him he could see his hip bones jutting out, and his wrists and ankles looked about ready to snap. His cheekbones were even more prominent, and he was so _pale_. He looked like a pile of bones lying on a hospital cot.

John couldn't believe how long he lived with Sherlock, yet he'd never taken the time to notice how much different he looked in his sleep. There was nothing robotic about him. No cold stare, no selfish demeanor. All of his muscles relaxed, no showing off, no hiding. It was just him in his most honest, truest form, and John couldn't help but gaze at him every once in awhile. For three years all he had wanted to do was see his face again, and now he had the liberty to drink it in in greedy gulps, to watch him dream. To just be here with him.

John knew Sherlock very well- some would argue better than anyone else. But he was still at a loss to understand how Sherlock could do this to him. Devastate him so fully, so completely. He knew the way he was- incapable of considering other's feelings. But this… this was entirely different. This wasn't just a harsh insult, or giggling at a crime scene, this was his _suicide_. Real or not, he'd known very well who would be affected… and John the most out of everyone. He knew exactly what he'd been doing- Sociopath or not- there was no excuse. How could anyone, even the infamous Sherlock Holmes, be that selfish? John would have defended Sherlock until his dying day against anyone who had a single bad word to say, but over the past few days he'd grown more and more conflicted.

Everyone told him _"Sherlock holmes doesn't have friends…"_ Maybe it would have been wise to listen to them, but he'd trusted Sherlock when he told John that he was the exception. He could still remember the exact words, _"I've just got one."_ It had given John such a sense of importance to be the great detective's one and only friend. Although now, he was beginning to have his doubts. If John was truly Sherlock's friend, how could he have just left for so long without even looking back? How could he have been alive all this time and not let him know? It all just didn't add up… but then again, Sherlock's actions rarely did fit the moral standard of the average person.

Suddenly John noticed Sherlock stir slightly. The tired movements started in his legs, and then he was uncurling from his u-shape position. John froze in his chair, unable to to move- hardly able to breath. He glanced at the morphine- the tubes were all empty. The green light was off. He would be concious any moment now…

Sherlock mumbled something unrecognizable, still still not fully awake. The hairs on the back of John's neck stood up at the sound of his voice. The first time in three years he had heard it. He knew he should say something back, but his mouth and brain seemed to be disconnected.

Sherlock's eyes were still closed, but he was patting his stomach with his left arm as if looking for something. John realized that he was reaching out for him- that he knew he'd been sleeping there minutes before.

John jumped when Sherlock suddenly sat bolt upright with surprising energy. "John?!" he slurred clumsily. He was blinking frantically, eyes darting around the room

"Y-yes," John finally managed to say. Sherlock's head whipped around to look at him, but they were still glazed over slightly. "I'm right here. It's alright."

The fear dissipated from Sherlock's face and was replaced by what John might call embarrassment, if he didn't know better. The detective slowly lowered himself back into his bed.

It was almost a full minute of silence that went by after that. To John it felt like ages as he tried to see what was going on in Sherlock's head. If he planned on speaking anytime soon. As usual though, John remained clueless.

Without turning to look at John, Sherlock said abruptly, "Well, you've got questions..."


	4. Chapter 4- I'm Sorry

Chapter 4

Of course John had questions. His best friend was sitting in front of him in a hospital bed after faking his own suicide, and had essentially come back from the dead after three years. Questions? Yeah, he had just short of a million, but only one seemed able to come out.

"Why? Sherlock… why did you _do_ all this?

Although he wasn't looking at him, John could see Sherlock's eyes harden and his body stiffen simultaneously. This had been the one question Sherlock had anticipated, but dreaded the most. He'd had years to contemplate an answer to it, but still he never came up with a phrase- or even a word that was good enough. There was no way to explain the things he'd done. Or his reasoning for doing them. He knew from past experience that it was useless trying to get John to understand. In fact, nobody ever seemed to understand. Not really. John had come the closest but… Sherlock feared the worst in this case.

"I had no choice." He said curtly.

John laughed, but it felt ice cold. It was a cruel laugh, just a short _"ha"_ cutting through the silence. "No choice? Sherlock, there's always a choice." John stared, wishing Sherlock would at least look at him, but he just continued to look straight ahead. "You just chose the easy way out!" He was surprised at the hostility in his voice, finally realizing how angry he was at Sherlock. How angry he was about _everything_.

Sherlock's eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously as he turned back to John. "You think this has been _easy_?" he hissed.

"You can't possibly say jumping off a damn building was your only choice Sherlock! That's dramatic, even for you." He studied Sherlock, looking for any sign that he was even acknowledging his existence, but the detective didn't move a muscle. His gray eyes remained lifeless, cold. "There's _always_ a choice." John repeated.

"No. Not always." Sherlock snapped. Again, he looked away, finding it particularly difficult to look John in the eye as he said, "Moriarty had you targeted. And not just you. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade as well. They were all aimed, and ready to pull the trigger unless they saw me jump. It had to be convincing."

"I don't understand…"

Sherlock sighed impatiently, "Moriarty wanted my name tarnished. Forever. His plan was for me to die in disgrace. Surely you could have deduced that from the 'Jim Brook' that you met. It was all just leading up to the destruction of my reputation." Sherlock explained cooly.

"So he used.. me? Against you?"

"It would appear so." John ignored the sarcasm in Sherlock's voice, finally arriving at the realization of what Sherlock was getting at. He jumped to _save_ them. The three closest people Sherlock ever had. What anyone but him might refer to as friends. John bit the inside of his cheek to avoid grinning, because Sherlock wasn't off the hook. Not yet.

"Alright." John said with a nod. It was clear that Sherlock had been expecting more than that. Some sort of gratification from the doctor, or maybe even forgiveness. His face slacked with disappointment, two invisible strings pulling the corners of his mouth down into a scowl. He still refused to look in John's direction, but he didn't have to. All John needed to know was in the detective's slumped shoulders and dark eyes. It was almost as if in the span of three seconds, Sherlock Holmes had given up.

And for once, John's deducing skills were spot on. In those seconds Sherlock came to realize his biggest fear had been confirmed. John wasn't going to forgive him. Being a scientist, he was well aware that the heart was just an organ. It had no correlation with emotions and attachment and other silly things, but the cloudy darkness found in Sherlock's eyes wasn't from a bit of disappointment. It was much more significant than that. It was from the burning sensation that had returned to his chest. He felt something shatter inside him, and the fragments settle deep into his tissue. He winced a bit at the unfamiliar pain, which went unnoticed by John.

What didn't go unnoticed though, was the incessant beeping of the heart monitor which was steadily speeding up, causing both Sherlock and John to glance up at it. The zig zag line of his heart beats spiked and dropped, closer and closer together. Sherlock felt himself blushing, as it gave away his emotional distress, but John seemed to think it was something medical. Sherlock desperately tried to calm himself down before either John realized why his heart was beating so quickly, or he called Mycroft in here to check on him. Neither one sounded like a pleasant situation to the detective. After giving the monitor a brooding glare, Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed the palms of his hands together, resting them in their usual position under his chin.

John waited for the monitor to slow before continuing, "That still doesn't explain the three years Sherlock. I went on for _three years_ thinking you were dead, while you were running around doing god knows what. Did you ever consider-?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open as he cut John off mid sentence, "Moriarty had a network!" he shouted, not angrily but defensively. The desperation in his voice, not the volume, was what made John shut up.

"He had more men out there. If I tried to contact you in any way, you'd be dead right now."

Again, John bit the inside of his cheek. If he let Sherlock know how much this meant to him, the conversation would be over. He knew how the detective responded to emotions of that nature. He turned into such a condescending sod, and that would be it. So he kept up the act of caring even less than Sherlock seemed to.

"No. You could have done something. You're brilliant Sherlock, if you wanted me to know, I would have."

"Indeed John, but since this whole endeavor has been to keep you alive I did not- in fact- want you murdered. Forgive me." He said sarcastically. The words felt like acid on Sherlock's tongue. _Why must I always do that?_ He thought to himself. Truthfully, he wanted nothing more than to beg John for forgiveness. There was even an overwhelming urge to wrap his arms around the doctor and never let go. But instead he was spitting out insults, and avoiding eye contact. Why did he find it so difficult to just… be human? He found himself engulfed with infuriating self hate and frustration.

"Sherlock, are you listening to me?" John yanked him away from his thoughts.

"Sorry?" Sherlock asked, sounding slightly flustered.

"I was just saying how you must not have cared at all." Sherlock looked at John, who now seemed to be consumed with disappointment, "I shouldn't have expected anything less of you I suppose."

They stared at each other for a moment as John's words sunk in. Suddenly, with a frustrated motion of his hands, Sherlock exploded, "Don't you see?! It's all been for _you_!" This time his voice was loud, startling John, but there was still more desperation in it than anger.

"If I didn't care, I wouldn't have jumped. You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade.. you'd all be dead. You think if I didn't care about you I would have given that a second thought? " He spat, all the while waving his hands through the air.

Sherlock stopped to catch his dwindling breath. The drugs were still present in his system, making him feel a bit dizzy all of a sudden. He looked down at the blanket, trying to hide this momentary weakness from John, but he'd already seen it all too well. His conscience caught up with him, and a heavy guilt settled into his stomach. He suddenly felt sick with himself, trying to keep up this charade of not caring, just to teach Sherlock a lesson of humility. He'd been without him for three years, and now he was spending their first time together tossing more blame onto the already guilt ridden detective. He wanted to kick himself.

His guilt worsened as he watched Sherlock bow his head, eyes shut tightly, and pretend to be strong for John like he always had been. His pale skin stretching over his protruding bones… and a silent tear sneaking out and dripping off his chin was the final straw. I don't think Sherlock was aware of it himself, tear after tear was dripping from his eyelashes now, and across the valleys of his face. Over his lips, along the length of his jaw… they just kept coming, but the detective did nothing to stop them. As if he were completely unaware. All John wanted to do was lean forward and wipe them away… he could no longer pretend not to care.

"I'm sorry." John murmured, barely audible, but he could tell Sherlock heard him as he transformed into a statue.

"I don't want your pity." Sherlock said back instinctively, his voice cracking slightly. Again, the words fell over his tongue like acid. He wished he could reach into the air and take the bitter comment back, but it was too late. He couldn't even bring himself to look up at the hurt expression John was surely making. And wait a second...his face was wet… why? Why was it wet? Sherlock blinked, confusion taking over his features. He was… crying? He suddenly became aware of his shaky shoulders and his short huffy breaths. _I'm crying?_ He thought in bewilderment, completely dumbfounded by his inability to stop.

He did want John's pity. He wanted John's _everything_. For him to be curled up next to him in this bed, and in every bed he ever slept in from now on. He wanted to return to 221b and he wanted John to be so much _closer_. But that look John kept giving him… like he didn't even recognize him anymore._ It's me, John,_ Sherlock thought to himself. _I'm still Sherlock, I'm still me_… He wished he could say it aloud but the lump in his throat was hardly even letting him breathe properly, not to mention he wasn't quite sure it was even true anymore.

All of a sudden, he found himself wrapped in a pair of arms. _They were John's arms._ Sherlock felt a sob escape him before he could even attempt to stifle it, and he collapsed into John. John had forgiven him. All the doubts were just in his head. Sherlock didn't need to hear the words, this was enough. His fear left him with each ragged breath he took, and John just held him tighter. Sherlock's arms flew up and wrapped around John without even thinking, latching onto him as if he were going to melt through his fingertips any second and be gone.

John whispered, "I'm so sorry." once again, and Sherlock noticed the tightness in his own voice, obviously holding back his own tears. Sherlock just responded by nuzzling into John's chest, trying to subdue his tears. They settled into John's sweater one by one, disappearing into the fabric. John turned his head to rest a cheek on the top of Sherlock's head, and as he closed his eyes a tear escaped each one, traveling down the length of his nose to drop off into Sherlock's dark curls. He wondered for a moment if the detective noticed, but then realized he didn't care either way.

"I've missed you, Sherlock." He whispered into his hair. Sherlock didn't say anything, but just repositioned his head against John's chest. The new position put his forehead dangerously close to John's lips, and Sherlock shivered as John's warm breath went across his sweaty skin. The familiar scent of tea and biscuits reached his nose; he'd forgotten how John always managed to smell sweet.

At first, John sort of flinched away upon feeling Sherlock's forehead touch just below his bottom lip, but Sherlock wasn't having it. He coiled his arms tightly around John's waist and pulled him back, letting him know it wasn't okay to leave. He _needed_ him there.

John grinned triumphantly and pressed his lips to Sherlock's forehead, because it just felt like the right thing to do.


End file.
